


Under The Influence

by Hollandoodle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arya Is Mentioned, Based on the band Faun, Beric is mentioned, F/M, Faun - Freeform, Pagan Festivals, Pagan Folk Music, Thoros is mentioned, but promising, dance club, not quite smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 15:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14499909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle
Summary: Sandor and Sansa are brought separately to a pagan folk music concert where they meet and get caught up in the influence of the rhythms, while Sandor acts as enamored personal guard and Sansa finds her heart's desire.





	Under The Influence

**Author's Note:**

> What is this called - a brain morsel? One of those little stories that I only wrote down to get it out of my head?
> 
> I hope you enjoy it nonetheless :-)
> 
> Totally influenced by the pagan folk band Faun. I blame them. They're amazing.
> 
> You can listen to one of their songs here: _[Wilde Rose](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CI402Owwi3s&list=PLUxNcHG2rY_eTydFUJTSzy7wcvy0OycFl&index=3&t=0s)_

The pagan folk music filled every space in the low ceilinged, dark club, the lights strobing an array of colors and making Sansa feel as though at any moment she could tip to the side and spin with the world. Fake smoke filled the room but she thought she smelled a bit of marijuana in it as well, immediately looking around for Arya. It would be just like Arya to bring something like that in here, or to find someone who had and to attach to them like a leech--a short, curvy, sexy leech who could usually charm the pants off of mere mortal men. 

The petite brunette was no longer anywhere to be found, however, leaving Sansa in the middle of the undulating crowd of concert goers, listening to the band play up on stage. It’s not that she minded--the music was entertaining and lively, and the general emotion of the crowd seemed well pleased and upbeat. But she was alone--lonely, really, if one was to compare her present state with the current state of her love life in general--and it seemed as though many people in the audience were either with someone or had found someone to attach to. Gyrating in solitude in a crowd of warm, musically enchanted people wasn’t going to make her feel any better.

As the tempo of the music picked up, so too did the flashing of the lights. She would do well to make it over to the wall where she might find something to hold onto, and with her height she could see over just about everyone’s head. Twenty feet, she saw--if she could squeeze through twenty feet of people she could make it to a small seating area.

On the stage two women sung in musical voices, harmonizing along to the music. Their song was accompanied by a man wielding an odd-looking string instrument, and a woman holding another instrument Sansa recognized as a hurdy gurdy.

Every once in a while one of the women at the microphone would stop to play a small flute that made haunting, melodious music completely unlike the recorder her father, Ned Stark, had threatened to snap over his knee years ago if Arya wouldn’t stop practicing in the house. She had been relegated to the back barn where they housed their dog breeding business, which hadn’t turned out much better. Arya found in that hoard of about thirty wolf hybrids an unsuspecting audience who were all too eager to accompany her in howling practice. 

The amazing drumming brought Sansa back to the present as the man on stage pounded on one in time with the music with bare hands, stomping simultaneously to allow the bells around his feet to resound as a background noise. He alone seemed to be the backbone of the music, being the source of the heavy thumping that resonated through Sansa's rib cage and made her heart and lungs vibrate to his beat.

It was heady, and although this was Sansa’s first foray into this Pagan Folk genre of music, she could certainly see its appeal. The throng of people got into it; the musicians got into it; and the crowd mentality was reaching even her calm, mathematical mind. She was going to need plenty of time later tonight to sit and digest the experience before she returned to her student teaching internship at the local college and told her students about it.

Come to think about it, perhaps some of them were even here?

She glanced around as the man on the string instrument stepped forward for a solo, provoking a round of loud applause and calls from the audience. Sansa attempted to move through the crush, tapping on shoulders and calling out, “Excuse me!” only to be ignored by each and every one of the people jumping and bouncing to the beat. 

“Pardon,” she tried, attempting to squeeze through two of them, only to be then squeezed back into her original position, which had now partially closed. She was surrounded, with a small jumping female in front of her, whose hair was in danger of going down the front of Sansa’s low cut shirt.

Perhaps somewhere in this crowd she could find a man to, for lack of a better phrase, _hook up_ _with_ , if only for the duration of the concert. Or maybe that was an insane idea and she was affected by the smoke--who knows. Either way, she didn’t happen to see any viable candidates around her.

To her left was a man who, as it seemed, was also dancing alone, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her. It was a good thing, too, because as she watched, he withdrew a flask from his jeans pocket and took a long pull on it.

The man to her right, one of the two who hadn’t let her through, was grinding on his lady friend now, although Sansa wasn’t entirely convinced they had arrived together. She could have sworn moments ago the girl had been grinding her hips against a different man in front of them.

But then, Sansa could have been mistaken. The room was so dark and smoky that it was a wonder she could make out individual faces at all.

Her eyes happened to catch those of a man on the other side of Flask Guy and he seemed promising--tall, tamed brown hair, nice physique, and he was smiling at her in a way that said he could possibly be interested in what he saw. Then he cocked his head, in a  _ come hither _ movement, making Sansa’s heart skip a beat as she wondered if she was actually going to dance with a random guy at the club.

And then someone shouldered past her--another man, actually--who squeezed past Flask Guy to embrace the brown-haired man and draw him down to his level for a-- _ oh _ . 

_ Take it off the dance floor, please _ , Sansa thought. She turned away from their tangling tongues and looked back at the musicians on stage.

Another puff of marijuana smoke drifted past her face and she breathed in much of it, waving an ineffectual hand in front of her face just as the music reached a crescendo and every instrument began playing at what sounded like peak capacity.

Then everything happened at once, and Sansa wished Arya had been there to lean on--the music reaching its zenith, pounding rhythms in her ear that she could have sworn were musically describing the act of sex-- _ thump, thump, thump _ . The crowd around her began jumping in unison, as though they were indeed a single entity rather than a mass of individual bodies stuck together with sweat and spilled drinks. And the strobe lights-- _ gods, the lights! _ \--picked up the pace of their blinking and moving, somehow coordinated to the beats of the music so that Sansa attempted to close her eyes once just to escape them for a moment.

It was while her eyes were closed briefly--a second or two at most--that the man on her left, still with his flask in one hand, and no doubt drunk, lost his balance and fell into her. He grabbed for purchase on anything to keep himself upright, which just so happened to be Sansa’s arm, causing her to cry out and step back, attempting to wrench her arm away from the offensive grasp.

Flask Guy grumbled and cursed, somewhat righting himself to bring his face close to hers.

“Wanna danth?” he slurred, eyes glassy in the light of the strobes, and Sansa was hit by a wave of whiskey breath. 

Suddenly his other hand came up, but when he went to grab her other arm it missed its mark, landing directly on her breast, instead. 

Sansa cried out in shock just as a massive arm reached out and flat-hand shoved the man, causing him to stumble into the group in front of her. Two men turned and focused on Flask Guy, who was suddenly and roughly absorbed into the crush of people, presumably dealt with by the crowd of men who surrounded him. She lost sight of his sweaty face as the music slowed once more, the sway of the crowd no longer as coordinated as it had been moments ago.

“Are ye alright?” a deep, accented voice asked from just behind her ear. It startled her, even as she reached a hand up to press against her chest where Flask Guy’s hands had forcibly grabbed her flesh. She wondered if she was going to have a bruise.

Sansa turned, coming very closely face to face with long dark hair and a dark beard. Somewhere in the shadows of the dark strands she could see a face, though his eyes were shadowed by brow and his mouth was hidden beneath a thick mustache that her brothers could only dream of having.

He was sort of like a sexy, scowling Grizzly Adams, with long hair and no pet bear.

“I--I think so,” she stammered, hand still on her breast. 

She saw then the man’s eyes lower to that spot, and though she couldn’t see the expression on his face, she could feel the tension radiating from his body. With a flat palm she rubbed higher on her chest, attempting to make it seem like she hadn't just been molding her hand to her own breast. He lifted his eyes to hers just as some brighter lights came on, and she could see them then--light gray that formed thin rings around wide, black pupils. 

“He’s gone--” he began to say, his raspy voice like the slow slide of sandpaper being run along wood grain. 

But a second blow suddenly came from behind her, and Sansa heard the offender’s voice, as well as another woman’s higher pitched shriek, a moment before feeling the impact of a body crashing into her back. She found herself being propelled against her grizzled savior.

He had stood to his full, and considerable, height so when she collided with the body of this sexy, tall Grizzly Adams, her cheekbone landed squarely against his pectoral muscle as her hands came up to take a steadying grip on the the sides of his shirt.

Two arms, strong as steel, tightened around her torso keeping her upright, but Sansa looked back, expecting to see a fight breaking out in the area between her and the stage.

But the man who had grabbed her breast was being led to the small space partitioned off in front of the stage by security, and the other woman he had presumably assaulted was being comforted by two men and a second woman as the music continued.

Grizzly Adams kept his arms around her and with the press of people from all sides, Sansa held onto him, suddenly afraid that if he let go, something else bad would happen.

_ Where the hells is Arya? _ she questioned silently.

She was going to have a stern talking to with her sister as soon as they got home tonight. Not only did she have very little chance finding her sister in the mad crush of people, but Arya also had little to no hope of finding Sansa, despite her above average height. There were simply too many bodies packed together, clamoring to be close to the stage. 

With the very drunk, and very grabby, man being dealt with by security, Sansa was beginning to feel the unwanted press of other people closing in on every side but now it seemed to be pressing against the protective cage of a very strong pair of arms.

The music had quieted, becoming nothing more than a couple interesting mouth instruments eliciting twanging sounds into microphones with the occasional thump of a drum beat. It was quiet enough that Sansa could hear the rise of small conversations around her.

But not to her front. No, that was where a wall of muscle stood, solid, as her Grizzly Adams protected her from the creeps and guarded her against the press of sweaty bodies.

Well, it was better than dealing with  _ that _ , she decided. And thus far the man had completely avoided touching her breasts, having one arm wrapped around her shoulders and the other around her waist. And if he wasn’t here with anyone, well… there was no harm in asking him for his services for the remainder of the concert, was there?

She looked up into his shadowed face and felt his breath against her brow as he leaned down to hear her speak.

“Are you here with someone?”

“Nay,” came his immediate answer. He sounded British. Or Irish, maybe?

“Girlfriend?” She didn’t want to step on any toes--a girlfriend would be an immediate  _ nope _ .

“Nope,” he said easily. Sansa smiled. Check and check. But then he spoke, his breath tickling her hair line and sending shivers of awareness down her spine.

“And you, lass? Are ye here with someone?”

She tried to place the accent--definitely not British. Scottish--that was it--his voice rough and uncultured, but not intimidating, nor bold in any way.

The music was beginning to pick up, the drums becoming more insistent as the string instrument played out a lively melody that was getting people hooting and hollering in the crowd. Another blast of marijuana smoke came from somewhere and Sansa wasn’t quite as bothered by it as she was before. There was something oddly comforting about having this man’s arms around her, all muscle and bone and masculinity, raw and unfiltered, making her feel more feminine than any of her previous boyfriends had done. It was quite nice, actually.

“No, I came with my sister,” she explained to him, although she was only getting flashes of his face in the strobe lights. And although he hadn’t asked, “No boyfriend, either. I’ve been done with those for several months now.”

“Then ye won’t mind protecting me from the more unruly types in this crowd, eh?” 

She glanced at him to see if he was being serious, but he had his head turned away, looking out over the crowd as though surveying the hoard and determining the likelihood of needing protecting.

Sansa chuckled, resting her palms on his chest. Feeling the warmth radiating from his body through his shirt, she silently compared him to every single boyfriend she’d ever had, knowing he was by far the widest, tallest, most muscular man she had ever met.

“Aye,” she replied, waiting for him to look back at her. “I’ll protect you, so long as I can keep your arms around me just so. Better to keep an eye on you and not lose you in the crowd, yes?”

Knowing exactly what he was offering made it all the more fun to pretend to switch the tables, and she scratched her fingers lightly over the fabric of his shirt in a good humored gesture. In response he tightened that arm just a bit, his large palm spanning her back just above the waistband of her tight jeans.

“Mm,” he replied in assent, nodding down at her and dropping his face so his mouth was beside her temple. “Tis a deal, then.”

_ That voice--he should be up on stage singing _ , she thought. Velvet and toe-curling and quite possibly the sexiest thing she’d ever heard. Muscles moved beneath her fingertips, and Sansa thought about the wisdom of what she was doing. But it didn’t really matter, not in the end--she was going to enjoy the concert now. With this willing man, another layer of enjoyment had just been added. 

She tilted her head back, sending him what she hoped was a sultry, inviting look.

“My name is Sansa,” she said, a bit louder this time as the music was again on the upswing. The man smiled slightly, enough that beneath the mustache she could see wide lips and the hint of white teeth. He was almost close enough to kiss, though she knew that would be absurd.

“Sandor,” he murmured, still close. “Sandor Clegane.”

◦ ℘ ◦

Sandor saw the exact moment when a flash of light from above illuminated the rest of his face. The woman--Sansa--had been looking up at him when suddenly her smile fell and her eyes alighted on the bare expanse of gnarled flesh, the unavoidable lack of hair a glaring reminder that a long time ago his brother had changed the course of his life in perpetuity. 

Despite the lights flickering, often darkening before multicolored flashes made her lips turn purple, pink, blue and green, her eyes remained focused on his face, studying him. She might not have been smiling, but neither had she grimaced, nor recoiled nor anything similar to those reactions. For that he was grateful.

Then as he watched, her eyes reconnected with his before slowly drifting shut, her body relaxed against his, and her hips began to move in time with the loud music.

It was slow, just a swaying from side to side that was easy for his own body to mimic. He hadn’t been here to dance, after all, but rather to serve as designated driver for the guys. But he hadn’t seen Beric or Thoros in quite some time, and had decided to just enjoy the music when he found himself looking down at a drunk scene unfolding before him.

Only the woman hadn’t been drunk. And she obviously did not appreciate the man pawing at her--had seemed in fact hurt by the man’s actions--so it felt completely normal to come to her rescue.

But then she’d looked at him--had trained those bright blue eyes on him and he had felt something magical come over him, with the music and the lighting effects and the crowd mentality of the undulating bodies surrounding them. 

And here she was, swaying against him with his arms wrapped around her, not only single and entertaining him but eyes closed and seemingly enjoying herself. It was a marvel. 

He wasn’t exactly sure if he should question the presence of this woman in his arms or the movements of her body, or how suddenly he was enjoying himself much more than he had expected. He didn’t know if he should lead her off to the side and attempt conversation, or set her away from him so that his body didn’t react embarrassingly to the way she was rubbing against him, or if he should ignore everything and go back to merely being present at the concert and not really enjoying anything. 

But it was right about then that, for the first time that evening, he felt himself coming under the same power of the music that those around them were already under. Perhaps it was the voices of the women singing on stage, projecting sound waves in a foreign language across the sea of bodies. Or the siren who danced in his arms, her body pressed to his, her small hands light on his chest but warm through his shirt. 

It could have been the drums that finally spurred his body to move, that encouraged her to open her eyes and look up at him with a smile on her face that spoke of the same things that came to mind with the music playing around them--secret forest glens, green canopies overhead, waterfalls and spirits and nature and being together. Sandor almost felt as though he had fallen under the music’s spell.

Until Sansa’s hands drifted upwards, over his shoulders and around his neck, and he felt the barest hint of hips pressing forward into his, still swaying side to side. It was then that he knew he was under  _ her _ spell, and he felt his hands slide down almost of their own accord, one coming to rest on the curve of her hip while the other continued lower, just lightly pressing against the upper curve of her butt. Still she swayed, only now he felt her fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, and the music became louder still, the drums reverberating inside his chest as she pulled at him to draw his ear closer to her mouth.

“Just for tonight,” she spoke, barely loud enough for him to hear. Her breath tickled his ear and he listened as she continued, “Can you be mine?”

Sandor drew back and froze, having not expected her to say anything like that. But there was a clearness in her eyes, a clarity that said she was neither drunk nor high, but instead eager to share this with him.

He was shocked, but at the same time he felt a bone deep desire to explore what it was she was offering.  _ Hers _ ? He could only imagine what that meant.

But he nodded anyway, and was enlightened right away when she pulled his face down again, but this time for a kiss.

◦ ℘ ◦

Sansa would have thought she had been drugged, except she knew she wouldn’t be able to catch a buzz off of the small amount of smoke she was inhaling; which left only the music and the man in her arms as the explanation for her behavior.

That sensual beat of the drums paired with the smell of this man--earthy and masculine, faint cologne as though he had put it on hours ago and what was left was more the scent of his skin than the fragrance that masked it--all combined to send her senses into overdrive. Sansa realized this must be why Arya liked this pagan folk music so much, as suddenly Sansa felt like dressing in flowing scarves and dancing around a bonfire.

Dancing with  _ him _ , that is--Sandor Clegane, with the unignorable scarring and soulful gray eyes--who was suddenly the embodiment of every sexual desire Sansa had ever had, much to her surprise.

It was that realization that led her to kiss him, that led her to tangle her fingers in his hair and lift up onto her toes. She moaned as she parted her lips and his tongue swept into her mouth, realizing that he must have felt her vocalization because even though she didn’t hear it, she felt his rumbling reply vibrate from inside his chest into her own where they were pressed together.

The music played on, the other revelers occasionally bumping into them but neither paid them any mind. Sansa was entranced with his kiss, the soft way his mouth moved over hers and the way her heart was telling her she had waited her entire life to kiss this man. The soft skin of his mouth with the scratching of his mustache and beard, the strong grip he had on her as he proved to be the only thing holding her upright--it all combined with the taste of his tongue and the way their breaths mingled to make her feel drunk on sensation. 

As the tempo of their kiss increased, there was a dichotomy between how his mouth was making love to hers and how his hands hadn’t strayed from their positions on her body, and she didn’t know how to tell him she  _ wanted _ him to touch her; that she would welcome his hands on just about every single part of her body. She yearned for it, in fact, and if that wasn’t shocking enough, she chose to show him with her hands instead.

As they kissed she touched him everywhere she could reach--his hair, his neck, his beard, only hesitating briefly before pressing her palm to the textured skin of his temple and scalp. Lower they slid, over his shoulders, back to his chest, around his back and sides and hips.

It was when her hands reached for his butt that his own grip on her tightened, and she felt herself pulled into a bulge at the front of his jeans.

She gasped, breaking the kiss and drawing back to look at him, seeing his heavy breathing a mirror of her own. Heat pooled between her thighs with the knowledge that he was turned on--as turned on as she was, in fact--and she darted her tongue out to taste the wetness left on her lips.

She watched him watch her mouth, saw his nostrils flare in the dim light and the way he dipped his head, casting his eyes in shadow. So with lips parted under his gaze, she slowly drew the tip of her tongue over the curve of her upper lip, hoping she looked as sexy as she felt. Then she brought a single finger to his mouth and did the same to his lips, feeling the brush of his mustache tickling the tip of her finger. His mouth parted and his breath warmed her skin, warmer than the air heated by the sweating bodies around them. His breaths were fast and a little bit shaky, only to be forgotten when he descended on her once again and they crashed together in a kiss that surpassed the sexual nature of their first.

It was bruising, passionate, and Sandor finally-- _ finally! _ her mind yelled--began to let his hands roam. At first it was tentative; palms sliding over her sides as his tongue swept across her mouth. But then they became more insistent, and Sansa could feel the pull of arousal low in her belly as his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. She arched into his touch unconsciously, but was delighted when he let a single thumb sweep over her sensitive nipple through the fabric of her shirt.

The music pounded inside her chest, at times matching the staccato of her heart. All around them there were smells and sights, flickering lights and bright blazes of strobes punctuated by a few people managing to sing along to the lyrics in the foreign language. 

But Sandor was the main event now, at least in Sansa’s realm of consciousness, with the music and vocals taking a backseat to the overload her mind and body were enduring at the feel of him, the scent of him, the  _ taste _ of him. 

Wide palms reached around her, one pulling at her shoulders and squeezing her into his chest while the other dipped lower, over the curve of her hip to the back of her thigh. 

Sansa ceased swaying to the music so she could wrap her leg around his, and his hand dipped behind to lift her thigh higher on his hip, soon followed by his other hand to lift her completely off the floor. 

After a moment of uncertainty, Sansa merely wrapped her legs around his waist as his hands held her high, refocusing on his mouth at this new, better angle.

It wasn’t until her back came up against a solid wall that she realized he had somehow managed to maneuver them off to the side, likely parting the crowd with his sheer size and intimidating presence. His body pressed into hers intimately and despite drawing back to look at him, Sansa felt no compunction over monopolizing his time like this--and it seemed he felt none, as well. She could see no hesitation on his face, no irritation or desire to separate or put any distance between them. 

Instead she saw what she knew he would see on her face, mirrored in his own eyes--wonder, lust, perhaps a bit of shock mixed with the awe of the moment. 

She couldn’t imagine he didn’t have women throwing themselves at him, though she was indeed curious as to what had sent him in her direction that night, and why it was that he was here with her now, leaning in to capture her lips in a sweet, gentle caress. 

At every turn he seemed to be this mix of passion and care, of desire and tenderness, and he displayed that softer side of him now as he kissed her as though they were the only two bodies in the room so greatly affected by the sweeping, magical music, instead of crowded against the wall by the hundreds of bodies brushing up against his back. How was it, she wondered, that this man was unencumbered by relationships and available and  _ here _ , at the same time she was? 

They kissed while the music changed, a softer instrumental piece that matched the tame pace of Sandor’s mouth on hers. The emotions evoked by the music lead her to slide her hands into his hair and touch, to feel, to draw her fingers outwards while experiencing the flow of soft strands between them. Then, without much change to the tempo of the song a man’s voice came through the speakers from the stage, smooth as velvet and sensually wrapping around every one of the audience members, and it seemed to enflame Sandor’s attentions.

He broke the kiss to lay a path across her cheek, coming to a stop at the soft skin just in front of her ear. When he spoke it was merely a whisper, but so deep and close, his lips up against her ear, that she closed her eyes to feel every word reach into her body and tickle her bones.

“I could kiss you for hours.” 

Sansa shivered as his mouth descended, her neck a landscape he seemed intent on discovering--every curve, every hollow; she felt his mouth drift over the surface leaving a tingling trail of tenderness across her skin.

As Sansa tilted her head to bring her mouth closer to Sandor’s ear, she opened her eyes and saw his scars laid bare under the unforgiving blue of the swirling lights. As the shadows flowed over them, the dips and fissures appeared to become alive and dance across his face.

The receiving, the healing, the enduring, and the living; these marks were more than simply artifacts of something that had happened to him; Sansa realized that they were undoubtedly central to his identity.

“I dare you,” she replied, her body trembling at the implication.

Then without thinking she pressed her lips to his temple, the corner of her mouth falling where once an eyebrow might have been. Soft lips slid over the inconsistent surface, and as though the leviathan beneath her could no longer control the reactions of his body, a great tremor rumbled through his torso as she lifted and pressed, lifted and pressed, dropping tender kisses to the damaged man.

Beneath her she felt him freeze, his mouth still in contact with her skin but his tongue now soothing over the area he had just scraped with his teeth. Then he lifted face to hers, the warm, humid air of the club not enough to prevent a rush of cold over the spot where his mouth had just been.

◦ ℘ ◦

“I dare you,” she had whispered into his ear before pressing her mouth to his ruined face--once, twice, three times that would have been more had he not paused, letting his tongue slide over the skin of her throat before he lifted his face to hers.

Who was this siren that had enchanted him, who drove him insane nearly from the moment he had spotted her in the crowd? This nymph who was staring directly at him with eyes that looked in turns violet, cerulean, and emerald in the color changing lights above them. Spirit indeed, with siren red hair and a body that could fell even the most resolute and steadfast man. 

Sandor was weak, or had at least met his match in the woman in his arms, who even now was tightening her legs around his hips to pull his hardness in closer to her core. As she did so her lips parted, her head fell back, elongating the slender column of her neck. It beckoned him, calling to him as though his mouth belonged on it. 

The music stopped and suddenly the entire space behind him, the large room where slick bodies and roaming hands came to a standstill, was filled with the haunting melody of two feminine voices lifted high in synchrony, each dipping and rolling in time but in different notes, their vibratos rippling through the air as though the very soundwaves that filled the room were an extension of their bodies, caressing the concert goers, weaving a spell around them that left every single person frozen in a trance.

He stared into Sansa’s eyes, watched her tilt her face forward towards his as he rocked his pelvis against her body. The friction made him groan, the pressure nearly unbearable when she leaned in, bringing her mouth once again close to his scarred, damaged ear.

“I never do this,” She said, more loudly now that the drums had picked up again and the crowd around them were beginning to move and make sound. Then the other instruments joined in, more voices through the speakers, and Sansa suddenly turned from seductress to shy smiles and coy looks. It brought Sandor back down from the cloud he had been floating on, and he loosened his grip so she could slide down.

But her legs tightened, signalling that she did not in fact want to get down. He stopped to look at her again, and her lips parted in a smile to show straight teeth that glowed white under the lights.

_ “No,” _ she said, her arms encircling his neck to ward off the prospect of separating from him. “I mean,” she continued, and he had to watch her mouth as her voice softened and was nearly completely drowned out by the cacophony of sounds coming from around them. “I mean, I never invite a guy back to my place, but…” Her voice completely trailed off, but Sandor still read every word on her soft lips loud and clear. She looked around, as though someone she knew was going to call her out on her apparent decision.

“Sandor, would you--” she leaned in close as the musicians reached a loud crescendo and the crowd cheered, all at the top of their lungs, “--come home with me tonight?” 

Her breath brushed his hair and he felt goosebumps prickle his skin when all at once she squeezed with her legs, thighs, with her arms, caging him to her even though it was he and the wall who supported her weight.

Sandor swallowed thickly. He hadn’t expected  _ that _ .

He attempted to speak and found he needed to clear his throat, and her smile was shy but hopeful, expectant.

“No,” he said, though it came out as more of a growl than an actual word. Before she could react he added, “I can’t.” 

Sansa’s face fell, and he knew he had disappointed her. But in her he could sense something deeper than a physical connection. It was as though a part of her was reaching out to him on a level closer to the metaphysical--the essence of her being proving there was something in this dimension meant for him greater than the solitary life of a social recluse. 

As her grip on him loosened he tightened his arms, leaning in to nudge her face back up in his direction with his nose against her jawline. 

There, on the soft skin of her cheek, he pressed his lips and murmured, “Not if it’s just for tonight.”

Sansa’s cheek rounded with her smile, and she turned to press her mouth to his, her tongue doing delicious things to his lower lip as her eyes closed and he slid a hand beneath the back of her shirt.

Warm skin met rough palm, and he felt a shiver wrack her body within the circle of his arms. 

_ Aye _ , tonight was going to be magic.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I have more fics to come, so "stay tuned" - or, you know, subscribe or whatever... 
> 
> Check me out on tumblr - I'm _[Hollandoodle](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hollandoodle)_ there, too!
> 
> Oh, and on Instagram - _[Hollandoodle!](https://www.instagram.com/hollandoodle)_


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